


Cut myself on angel hair and baby's breath

by Ferrera



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Sammy, Crossdressing, Dirty Talk, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feminization, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, Gunplay, Hurt/Comfort, Intercrural Sex, Jealousy, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Needy Sam Winchester, Playing House, Pregnancy Kink, Sibling Incest, Top Dean, Underage Sex, Weecest, attempt at writing anomie as a personal condition, beautifully fucked up boys, kinda dark Sammy, mentions of Dean/OFCs, mentions of knifeplay, only Durkheim can judge me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 10:58:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13234242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferrera/pseuds/Ferrera
Summary: Sam might be chasing normality, but Dean’s sure they’re heading for insanity instead.





	Cut myself on angel hair and baby's breath

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Girlish](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8443828) by [homo_pink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homo_pink/pseuds/homo_pink). 



> I started working on this fic a couple of months ago and I'm glad I finally managed to finish it on the first day of the new year. Please mind the tags - I don't really want to spoil anything but Sammy's twelve in the beginning of the fic and still only fifteen towards the end, so that should give you an idea of how fucked up this really is.
> 
> This work is inspired by one of the loveliest little pieces I've ever read, written by homo_pink. Title's from Heart-Shaped Box by Nirvana, but the songs I've been listening to the most while writing this are Comfortably Numb and Brain Damage/Eclipse by Pink Floyd, Slide Away by Oasis, and The Man Who Built the Moon by Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds, so if you'd like to listen to some songs while reading this, I'd definitely recommend those.

  
The things Sam wants and the things he asks for hadn’t always seemed like a paradox to Dean.  
  
Sam used to constantly ask Dean to play house with him when they were still kids, back when little Sammy barely rose above the stove, only able to reach the cupboards above the sink if he’d stand on one of the creaky kitchen chairs. _C’mon Dean, please, I’ll be your wife, you can just be yourself, okay?  
  
_ Dean would refuse most of the time, only giving in when Dad went away just to see his baby brother smile so happily, humming a tune while pretending to cook for Dean. He’d wear one of Dean’s shirts as an apron, sleeves tied in a bow around his neck.  
  
Dean had never thought much of it. Sam had grown up without a mother, and pretty much without a father, too, no matter how hard Dean tried to make up for it, so Dean figured Sam just wanted to pretend to have the normal life he’d never had. Still, even back then he had felt it would be better to hide their little games from Dad.  
  
Sammy’s twelve now, but still insists on playing house whenever Dad goes away. He’s standing by the stove, alternately stirring the pasta and the tomato sauce, finally old enough that Dean _really_ lets him cook, instead of having to play pretend.  
  
Dean walks up behind him, wraps his arms around his little wife and peeks into the pots simmering on the stove.  
  
“Smells good, sweetheart,” he says, nuzzling into Sammy’s hair. Sam leans back a little against him, but his attention never leaves the pots. He keeps stirring, making sure the sauce won’t burn.  
  
“‘s almost ready,” he murmurs, standing up on his tippy toes so he can reach the pot at the back of the stove, checking if the spaghetti is properly cooked. Dean leans back a little, settles his hands on Sam’s narrow hips, giving him a little more space to move.  
  
Dean won’t admit it to anyone, not even to Sam, but he has sort of come to love their self-made normality.  
  
  
~  
  
  
Sammy is cleaning the kitchen. He’s standing on a chair, up on his tippy toes to reach the top of the range hood, dressed in one of Dean’s shirts. It’s supposed to look like a dress, but it looks more like a shapeless nightgown, if Dean’s honest. The pair of white, knee-high soccer socks his baby brother is wearing don’t really look all that much like stockings either.  
  
With his skinny limbs, narrow ribcage and hips, flat chest and his perky little butt, Sammy looks nothing like the chicks at school, hardly any curves under that too-big shirt, but the sight of him still makes Dean’s heart speed up a little.  
  
“‘s better, right?” Sam asks when he’s finished cleaning, face a little flushed from the effort. A couple strands of hair are falling out of his tiny ponytail.  
  
Dean looks around the kitchen, and yeah, it does look a lot cleaner than it had before. _Smells_ better as well. Dad can be fucking glad he’s got a son like Sam.  
  
“Sammy,” Dean murmurs as he brushes a sweaty strand of hair out of his baby brother’s face, “my perfect little wife.” Sam smiles shyly but his eyes are gleaming with pride, eyelashes fluttering, his bunched-up cheeks glowing so prettily, and they turn even pinker when Dean takes his role maybe a little too serious and kisses his pretty little wife. Sam makes the sweetest little sounds as he fists his tiny fingers into Dean’s flannel, sounding like he’d wanted Dean to kiss him since they started this game, and Dean wouldn’t be surprised if he had.  
  
  
~  
  
  
Little Sammy is so eager for his kisses.  
  
Whenever Dean comes up behind Sam as he’s cleaning, cooking or doing laundry, wrapping his arms around his tiny wife, Sam tilts his head up to Dean and looks at him with those wide, gleaming eyes, lips slightly parted, begging so silently. He’s also started looking at Dean like that when they’re not even playing house. He never says a word, but Dean can see the eagerness in his face— sees it whenever Sammy’s got bruises and scratches from playing outside and holds his scraped palms up to Dean, lips pouting, wordlessly asking him to kiss it better; whenever Sammy can’t sleep at night and crawls closer and closer to Dean. Even in the dim light, Dean can easily see the want in his baby brother’s eyes.  
  
They hardly play house anymore, but Dean has been kissing Sammy more often than ever.  
  
  
~  
  
  
One night, when Dean comes back after hooking up with some sweet girl and slides into bed next to Sammy, his baby brother snuggles up to him, but instead of wordlessly begging for Dean to kiss him, he hides his hot face in Dean’s neck and murmurs _can we pretend I’m one of those girls you hook up with, Dean?  
  
_ It feels like Dean’s being stabbed in the chest with his own knife, the way Sammy asks so sweetly, so innocently. Dean shifts back a little so he can see Sam’s face, and as his baby brother looks up at him with those big, gleaming eyes, pink lips parted, desire spreads through Dean like a fever, making him shiver while everything glows red-hot inside him.  
  
“Sammy,” he grits out, “god, _Sammy_ , I don’t think we should,” but little Sammy takes everything that’s not a clear “no” for a “yes” these days, already wriggling around in Dean’s arms until his butt is pressed flush to Dean’s crotch.  
  
“Please, Dean, rub against me?” he asks softly, pushing his little butt back against Dean, and even though every single fiber in his being tells Dean they shouldn’t be doing this, that _he_ shouldn’t be doing this, his hips stutter up against his baby brother. Sammy sighs like a dream, rubbing back against Dean with eager little movements, and Dean should back the fuck off, tell him to stop, explain to him that brothers are not supposed to do this sort of thing even though he’s pretty sure Sam _knows_ that, but all he does is bury his face in the nape of Sam’s neck as he ruts against his sweet little butt, can’t watch Sammy giving himself to him like that, can’t watch himself rub off against his twelve-year-old baby brother. Dean smothers his moans against Sam’s soft skin, doesn’t want to hear what he sounds like as he gives in.  
  
  
~  
  
  
Sam’s sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, looking at Dean through the slightly steamed-up mirror, watching him as he shaves.  
  
“Do _all_ boys start to grow facial hair eventually?”  
  
“Well, maybe not _all_ boys,” Dean says, rinsing the razor, then bringing it back up to his face, “but I guess most of ‘em do.”  
  
Sammy wrinkles his nose, averting his eyes from the mirror. Dean drags the razor over his skin, keeping his gaze fixed on his own reflection so he won’t nick himself.  
  
“You think you’re lagging behind?” he asks, holding the razor still as he looks at Sam through the mirror. “Don’t worry, Sammy, you’ve only just turned thirteen.”  
  
Sam shakes his head as he plays with a lock of hair. Dean carefully slides the razor along his jaw.  
  
“You like that about girls, right,” Sam says, looking back up at Dean, “that they’re all hairless and smooth and pretty.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Dean says, unsure what to say— aware how fucked up it would be to say _I like that about you as well_. He focuses on his own reflection again, drags the razor across his jaw one last time, then rinses it thoroughly and puts it back to the cup on the bathroom sink.  
  
“Soon enough you’ll like that as well.”  
  
Sam looks away, fidgeting with the ends of his hair. Dean rinses the last traces of shaving cream off his face, turns the tap off and dries his face with a clean towel.  
  
“Or not, that’d be fine too,” he says as he turns back to Sam, “just— don’t worry, yeah?”  
  
Sammy nods jerkily, then looks away, biting his chapped lower lip.  
  
“Hey,” Dean starts, “I mean it, Sammy, don’t—”  
  
“Do you think I should grow my hair out?” Sam asks in what seems like a poor attempt to change the subject. Well, Dean's not gonna press him to talk about things he doesn't want to talk about.  
  
“Not sure if Dad would like that,” Dean says, watching Sam curling a lock around his finger, “but you could try.”  
  
“Would _you_ like it?” Sam asks, and Dean doesn’t miss the hopeful tone to his voice. Dean reaches for Sam, runs his fingers through his dark blond hair and tucks it behind his ear.  
  
“Yeah, I’d like that, Sammy.”  
  
  
~  
  
  
“Dean,” Sam mutters one night as he rubs his bare butt against Dean shamelessly, but he sounds so shy, so innocent when he asks, “talk to me like I’m your girlfriend, please, Dean?”  
  
Dean’s got his arms wrapped around his baby brother, firmly holding onto Sammy as he ruts up against him, but he feels as if he’s falling— falling into the deepest, darkest well he knows from his nightmares, nightmares in which he’s standing there, standing there with Sammy beside that well, nightmares in which Dean peeks to see what’s waiting down there, drawn to the darkness like flies to the light, but as he urges Sam to take a look as well, Dean slips and falls, consumed by that pitch-black hole.  
  
“Sammy,” he mutters against the nape of Sam’s neck, his nose buried in thick, soft locks of dirty blond hair that hasn’t been cut for months, “my baby, my pretty baby.” Sammy gasps so prettily, squirming in Dean’s arms at the words that feel so good on Dean’s tongue, but make his stomach tighten nonetheless.  
  
“My baby girl,” he mutters desperately against Sam’s skin as he comes all over his pert butt, “my pretty little baby, my perfect little Sammy.”  
  
  
~  
  
  
Sammy spreads his legs for Dean so easily. Dean didn’t even have to ask. He’d like to believe he never _would_ have asked.  
  
When Dean gets home late at night after hooking up with a girl, Sam’s usually fast asleep, his school bag on the floor beside the nightstand, already packed, clothes for tomorrow hanging over a chair. On those nights, Dean quickly crawls into bed next to Sam and snuggles up behind his baby brother, breathing in the sweet, comforting smell of him until he falls asleep.  
  
Dean’s about to do just that, stripping out of his clothes quickly but quietly, but as he crawls up behind Sam and nuzzles into his hair, Sam whispers his name, tiny fingers reaching back for Dean. Sam puts a hand on Dean’s thigh, eager little fingers digging into his skin, urging him closer.  
  
“Go back to sleep, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, rubbing soft circles into Sam’s hip with his thumb, but Sam shakes his head, instead taking Dean’s hand off his hip, guiding it to the swell of his butt.  
  
“Please, touch me down there, Dean, like you do when you put your hands up a girl’s skirt?”  
  
Dean can hear the little tremble in his voice, no traces of sleep at all, can tell that Sammy’s been staying up, building up the courage to ask while he’d been waiting for Dean to get back.  
  
“ _Sam_ ,” he breathes, trying to make it sound like a warning, digging his fingers in hard just above the swell of his butt.  
  
“Please, Dean, please?” Sam whispers. Part of Dean wishes that Sammy wouldn’t ask these things, the same part of him that wants to clamp a hand over his mouth so he won't hear those words, each single one feeling like a knife stabbed to his chest, ripping him apart, leaving nothing but his conscience intact.  
  
“Please, Dean, I’ll be so good,” Sam murmurs, then wriggles his pajama pants down until they’re gathered around his ankles. He cups his little balls and dick, drawing them forward so Dean won’t feel, as if that would ruin the illusion, as if it would maybe put Dean off. Dean swallows hard, then nuzzles against the nape of Sam’s neck, hands sliding down over the swell of his butt. He trails his fingertips along Sam’s cleft and rubs the tip of his index finger over his tight little hole, making Sammy moan so perfectly, so hauntingly, and Dean had hoped that he’d reached rock bottom by now, but he keeps falling, falling, falling.  
  
  
~  
  
  
At eighteen, Dean’s probably fucked more girls than his Dad has in his whole life, and it’d make him feel proud if he didn’t know exactly why he’s been trying so hard.  
  
The girl underneath him is pale and skinny, with narrow, boy-like hips, hardly any tits, and Dean would be lying to himself if he’d pretend that wasn’t why he went after her.  
  
She moans too loud and babbles too much to sound like Sammy though. He can’t pretend she’s his baby brother when she’s moaning like some goddamn porn star, can’t fucking concentrate on bringing her and himself off even though all he wants it to get over with it as soon as he can so he can go home, slip into bed next to Sam, wrap him up in his arms and nuzzle into his soft hair. Anger starts to boil in his blood as he keeps slamming into her without getting closer to finishing. He's angry at her for ruining his little fantasy, at himself for wanting her to be someone she’s not while he _knows_ she never could be, and most of all, angry that he even wants his baby brother like that in the first place.  
  
He’s rubbing her clit probably a bit too aggressively, desperate to make her fucking come already, trying to keep his hands busy so he won’t clamp them over her mouth to make her shut the fuck up. He tries to think of the way Sam spreads his legs for him so willingly, of how Dean always pushes them back together and fucks Sam’s skinny thighs instead, thinks of the way Sam begs him to fuck his mouth, of his baby brother swallowing his come and then trying to seduce Dean some more, spreading his legs _again_ , needy like a baby bird waiting to be fed— thinks about giving in, what it’d be like to push inside his baby brother.  
  
The girl beneath him stutters out some incoherent blabbering as she finally comes, clenching around him, and Dean only follows at the thought of what Sammy would feel like around him if he would come on Dean’s cock.  
  
He gets out of the car to get some fresh air, leaning against a brick wall as he watches the girl walk away a bit funnily. If only Dad would take him out hunting more often, maybe that would tone his anger down a little.

When she’s out of sight, he slams his fist against the wall, then drives back to the motel they’re staying in pretty much single-handedly.

His anger only subsides when he crawls into bed next to Sammy and tucks his baby brother to his chest. He’s bone tired and he’d be satisfied to just slowly rub against Sam all night long while his baby brother sighs and squirms in his arms, but Sammy’s already pressing his eager little hands to the front of Dean’s boxers, fingers trailing over the shape of his soft dick.  
  
Sam ignores him as he suggests they just rut against each other, takes Dean’s dick out of his boxers with his slender, quick fingers instead, then makes sure to get him rock hard. Sam asks _will you fuck me, Dean?_ in his sweetest voice, but Dean's conscientious enough to tell him _no way, forget about it, Sammy_. Sam keeps acting like he doesn’t even hear Dean, already turned around, underwear down his thighs, his butt pressed to Dean’s crotch. Dean pushes his dick just below the swell of Sam's ass instead, fucking up between his soft thighs. Sam cups his balls and dick, swatting Dean’s hand away when Dean tries to pry his little fingers away from his dick, itching to touch. Sam only lets him after Dean has spilled his load between his thighs, lets Dean slick him up with his own come, jerking Sammy until he gasps and writhes in his arms, spurting his still rather watery little load into Dean's fist.

He tells Sam he got into a fight when Sam notices his bruised hand and lets Sam wrap him in his arms as best as he can, watching through heavy-lidded eyes as his baby brother presses the softest little kisses to Dean’s sore knuckles.  
  
In Sammy’s arms, he just feels powerless.  
  
  
~  
  
  
Dean had planned to see some girl he’d met as he’d been waiting to pick Sam up from school, but ten minutes before he’s supposed to leave, he finds himself laid out on the bed, Sammy on top of him, sitting astride his bare chest. His baby brother is staring down at him with hopeful, gleaming eyes, skinny legs on either side of Dean, boxing him in with his knobby knees. He’s got his hands on Dean’s shoulders, pressing down with all his strength, and still Dean could sit up and throw Sam off of him so easily if he wanted to.

“Dean,” Sam whines, grinding down a little on his chest, “stay here, Dean, please?” He’ll be turning fourteen in two months, but he can still sound like he’s nine if he believes it to be necessary.  
  
“I won’t be long,” Dean murmurs, hands idly sliding up and down Sam’s still baby-smooth thighs, his shorts crawled all the way up. “Only a couple hours, Sammy.” Dad’s gone, once again, and Sam doesn’t like to be left alone, but Dean can definitely keep it quick. He’s not planning on the whole taking-her-out thing. They’ll drive by some fast food restaurant to get burgers or something and he’ll fuck her in the Impala after. Shouldn’t even take two hours.

“You can do me instead, okay, Dean? I’ll be just as good, I swear—”  
  
“ _Sammy_ ,” Dean grunts as he slides his hands up to the tops of Sam’s thighs, fingers digging hard into the soft flesh. “Fucking hell, Sammy.” Sam’s been asking that a lot, lately, fucking _pleading_ , even, begging Dean while Dean fucked his smooth thighs, _want you to do me like you do those girls, Dean, c’mon, I can take it, don’t gotta be so careful,_ and god knows Dean’s been trying to hold it off, but there’s only so much Dean can do to keep his little brother satisfied.

“Please Dean, really want it,” Sam pants, hands clutched into Dean’s flannel, fists pressed firmly to his chest.  
  
“Sammy, _god_ , ‘mnot gonna— goddamnit, you’re way too young for shit like that.”  
  
Sam grinds down on him a little harder, his pert little ass rubbing over Dean’s abs. Dean can see the shape of his hard dick through the thin fabric of his shorts.

“Don’t you wanna, Dean?” Sam half-purrs, half-whines, “I’ll be so good, be your good little wife, remember, just let me try, okay?” Dean shakes his head wordlessly, helplessly, slides his hands up to Sam’s narrow hips, holding onto him like Sammy is his anchor instead of his tormentor, trying to get a fucking grip on himself. He can’t lose his head, has got to stay calm, to be responsible, but his mind’s exploding at the thought of Sam’s dangerous, sweet little promises.

“I’ll try to be so good for you, Dean, please, I’ll be so good, you just gotta let me,” Sam whines, sounding close to tears, like he’ll cry if Dean doesn’t fuck him, if Dean goes off to fuck that girl instead. Dean likes to believe that it’s not his fault that Sammy’s so fucked up, he fucking tried to give Sam a normal life, took care of him, bathed him, cooked for him, put him to bed at night, but he knows he’s the only one to blame, should’ve known that from the moment he kissed his baby brother they were riding a downbound train.

“Gotta wait ‘til you’re a little older, Sammy,” he murmurs, hands still tight around Sam’s hips, his knuckles white, desperately trying to restrain himself. Sammy’s only _thirteen_ , Dean keeps reminding himself, _thirteen_ , goddamnit, and he’s still so small and skinny he looks closer to twelve than to fourteen.  
  
“I can take it, I swear,” Sam whines, “lemme try, Dean, _please_ , you just stay down and lemme try, okay?”

Dean knew from the moment Sammy had first spread his skinny legs for him that he’d eventually end up fucking his baby brother, but he’d thought that he’d be a bit stronger, for Christ’s sake, be a good fucking brother for once, responsible enough to wait until Sam would be _at least_ sixteen, but Dean’s as weak as a goddamn mollusk in Sammy’s vice.

He wraps his arms around Sam’s lower back and sits up, making sure he keeps Sammy in his lap as he leans sideways, rummaging through the drawer of his nightstand until he finds the lube. He hands it to Sam, who’s fucking _beaming_ at him, then maneuvers the both of them until Dean’s sitting on the side of the bed, feet on the ground, Sam still firmly seated on his lap, legs on either side of him.  
  
“Listen,” Dean says through gritted teeth, trying to sound surer than he feels, “‘m gonna open you up, alright, and once you’re ready, you can try to— _fuck_ , try to take my dick.” He swallows hard, closes his eyes briefly, slowly breathing in and out.  
  
Sam looks at him with big, glazed eyes, nodding fervently, impatient little fingers already opening the lube. He takes Dean’s hand and squirts some of it on his fingers. Dean pulls Sam closer to his chest, spreads his own legs a little in order to spread Sam’s thighs wider, then slides a hand down his spine. He trails his fingertips along his cleft and rubs his slick index finger over his tight little hole, getting it a little slippery before pushing inside.  
  
He feels hazy as he fingers Sam, can hardly fathom what they’re about to do, his baby brother so hot and tight around his fingers it clouds his mind and fills him with an almost numbing kind of bliss. He’s got his nose buried in Sam’s soft hair, feeling as if the smell of his baby brother could put him under anesthesia, Sammy’s sweet panting sounding like a lullaby in his ears. It’s only when Sam whines, “Please, Dean, I’m ready,” that he’s snapped out of his haze.  
  
He pulls his fingers out of Sam and wipes them on his jeans. He’s been rock hard from the moment Sammy had pinned him down to the bed, but he’s fucking _aching_ in his jeans now. He urges Sam to sit up on his knees so he can get his jeans and boxers off, then lies down on the bed, head propped up on the pillow so he can look at Sam properly.  
  
“You just do what feels good, okay, and whenever it’s too much, whenever I’m hurting you, you tell me and we’ll stop,” he says, holding Sam’s gaze. He’ll keep Sam on top of him, give him all control, let him take what he wants. He holds his leaking erection in hand as Sammy maneuvers himself into the right position to sink down on it. Dean can see his baby brother taking a deep breath as he places a hand on Dean’s chest for leverage, the other finding Dean’s hand on his dick, then starts to lower himself onto Dean’s cock.  
  
Dean has prepared him up to three fingers, but it feels as if even his pinky wouldn’t fit inside of Sam anymore as his baby brother tries to sink down on his cock, only the tip of his erection pushing inside, squeezed so tight Dean has to close his eyes to keep himself together. When he looks back up at Sam, his face is all scrunched up, brows furrowed, a deep pink flush on his cheeks, spreading all the way down his neck to his narrow ribcage. He’s breathing in short, shallow breaths, chest rising and falling quickly.  
  
“Breathe, Sammy,” Dean says, bringing a hand up to his hip to steady him a little. Sam closes his eyes and digs his nails into Dean’s chest, eyelashes fluttering as he tries to take more of Dean’s cock, to let gravity do its work. He’s trying hard not to make a sound, Dean can tell, trying so hard to give Dean what he said he would.  
  
“Relax for me, baby boy,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles over Sam’s hip. Sam’s thighs are trembling as he keeps trying to take more of Dean’s cock, and he sinks maybe half an inch further down, but then his lower lip starts to tremble as well and Dean knows he’s never going to fit, not without damaging his baby brother, not without hurting him. Sammy’s tightening up again— he’s nervous, probably, nervous to do the wrong thing or not to be able to keep his promise or god knows what, Dean doesn’t even care, he’s not going to fit. Tears are welling up in the corners of Sam’s eyes, and _shit_ , Dean has been so stupid to think Sam would tell him when to stop, stupid not to realize Sam would want to please Dean as best as he can, even if that means crossing his own limits.  
  
“Sammy,” Dean says, trying to sound as composed as he can, to sound calm for Sam, “look at me, Sammy.” A tear rolls down Sam’s cheek as he opens his eyes, his thin pink lips trembling ceaselessly, the hurt and shame of failure so clear on his face that Dean feels sick with it, the most rotten kind of guilt eating at his insides.  
  
“We’re not doing this, Sammy, c’mon, you gotta pull off,” Dean says, but Sam shakes his head furiously, more tears falling from his eyes.  
  
Anger rises in his chest, anger for Sam being so goddamn stubborn, but mostly for himself, for letting it get this far, for letting his goddamn thirteen-year-old baby brother try to fuck himself on his cock, believing he would know when to stop. He knows how bad Sam wants to be good for him, should've fucking realized that not being able to take Dean’s cock would be a failure to Sam.  
  
“I’m not mad at you, Sammy,” he shushes, “just— that’s enough, okay, we’ll try again another time, gotta pull off now,” he says as he holds Sam up, hands tight around his waist, not letting him give it another try. Sam’s still shaking his head, eyes closed, his cheeks wet from tears.  
  
“I’ll stay with you, I promise, just— please, there’s nothing you have to prove, Sam.”

“I want to,” Sam stutters, staying perfectly still except for the quick rise and fall of his blush-stained chest, still trying to adjust to the pain. He’s breathing hard, eyes hazy as he looks at Dean. Dean almost can’t look him in the eyes, still halfway inside his baby brother, feeling as if he’s tearing him apart.

“It’s okay, Sammy, I’ll stay with you tonight, gonna run you a nice bath and scrub your body clean, then wrap you up in all the towels we’ve got, I’ll make you hot chocolate and then we’ll go to bed.” He’s rambling, maybe more for himself than for Sam, not sure if Sam’s even listening.  
  
“Dean,” Sam whispers brokenly, and then he leans forward on his arms a little, more of his weight shifting to Dean’s chest, and he slowly, slowly lifts his hips, slipping off of Dean. He curls up in a ball on the side of the bed, naked and vulnerable. Dean carefully lifts him up and lays him down in the middle of the bed, pulls the sheets over him and crawls in next to him, pulling his baby brother to his chest. Sam hides his face into Dean’s chest, avoiding Dean’s eyes, and Dean has never felt so guilty in his life.

“Sammy, look at me,” he whispers helplessly as he strokes his baby brother’s cheek, wiping the last tears away. “Look at me, Sam.” Sam sniffles a little, rubs his eyes, then looks up at Dean. His lashes are sticking together from the tears, but his eyes are a little clearer and he doesn't squirm under Dean’s gaze.  
  
“God, I’m sorry, Sammy,” Dean whispers, “fuck, I shouldn’t have let you try—”  
  
“‘s okay,” Sam mutters, “I wanted to,” and Dean nods, what else can he do, but he knows it’s not okay, he has fucked up, fucked up bigger than he ever thought he would, and the broken look on his baby brother’s face is going to haunt him for the rest of his life and it’s only fair.  
  
“Gotta let me check,” he murmurs against Sam’s sweaty hair, “lemme me see if I haven’t—” he cuts off, unable to finish that sentence, and he sucks on his index finger and slides his hand down Sam’s body instead. His index slips between his cheeks, feeling around a little, then pushing inside, and when he pulls his hand back up, he’s relieved to see there’s no blood.  
  
Dean pulls his baby brother in again, holding him close. He presses a kiss to the top of his head, then slowly combs his fingers through Sam’s hair, trying to soothe, but he knows there’s nothing he can do to ease the pain, nothing to undo what he’s done.  
  
“Sorry, Dean,” Sam mutters against his chest, and Dean wonders if his baby brother can hear his heart break.  
  
  
~  
  
  
Dad’s not there the day Sam turns fourteen. He hadn’t exactly _promised_ Sam he’d be there, not after breaking his promise last year, but Dean can tell Sam’s disappointed, even though he’s trying not to let it show.  
  
Dean had been saving a little to buy Sammy pretty lacy panties and a matching bra in the smallest size available, but when Dad told them he wasn’t gonna be there on Sam’s birthday, Dean had quickly abandoned the idea and instead planned on spoiling his baby brother rotten, be a good fucking brother for once and give him a proper birthday.  
  
He drives them to a carnival a couple of towns ahead, and Sam’s eyes light up when he sees the Ferris wheel rising above the trees.  
  
Dean rides the bumper cars with him single-handedly until Sam screams, wins him a giant stuffed bear holding a plush heart that has _I love you_ written on it in a shooting game, lets Sam convince him to go on the Ferris wheel with him even though he fucking _hates_ heights, and feeds him fries, ice cream and cotton candy until Sam threatens he’s going to throw up in the car on their way back.  
  
Dean kisses the sweet taste of all the candy he’d been feeding Sam off his lips once they’re back in the car, and everything looks so perfect and rose-colored and innocent until Sam whispers, _will you fuck me tonight, Dean?  
  
_ Dean gives in _again_ , but he’s a better man these days, or at least not as stupid as he used to be, so he eats Sammy out until his jaw is sore, makes him come twice on his fingers while Sam keeps moaning _c’mon, Dean, it’s my birthday_ , and when Sam finally, _finally_ sinks all the way down on his cock, he’s smiling so dreamily, eyes gleaming with pride, and Dean’s never been so in love with him.  
  
  
~  
  
  
Dean still likes to come up behind Sam whenever he’s cooking, likes to wrap his arms around his baby brother and peek into the pots on the stove like he’s always done, whether they were filled or not.  
  
Sam’s stirring the oatmeal, his lunch package for school on the counter, already made. He’s freshly showered, hair wrapped up in a towel, his bathrobe firmly tied at his waist. Dean watches his slender fingers, the twist of his delicate wrist as he stirs the oatmeal. Sam doesn’t look that much like Dean’s baby brother these days, more like a dream, a little taller but still slender, with those long eyelashes and the most angelic face, a pretty little wife Dean would always want to come home to, so beautiful but so out of bounds it makes Dean’s heart sink and his chest feel too tight to breathe.  
  
“Sammy,” he murmurs as he wraps his arms around Sam’s belly, resting his head on his shoulder. Sam smells of the girly, flowery shampoo he uses, the one he always makes sure not to leave in the shower, hiding it under his bed instead so Dad won’t see. His morning rituals really do take a lot of time. Dean only just rolled out of bed, standing behind Sam in his worn boxers, hair mussed, and he probably still smells of cigarettes, beer, and a hint of the perfume the girl he fucked last night wore.  
  
“My perfect little wife,” he murmurs, mouth pressed to Sam’s neck, desperately trying to hang on to their little games. He doesn’t really have a proper rhythm anymore since he dropped out of school, but if he wakes up from Sam shuffling around, getting ready for school, he gets up as well so they can have breakfast together. It’s as close to normal as they can get these days.  
  
Sam smiles, Dean feels it as he presses a kiss close to his mouth, but he hardly plays along on mornings like these. Sam stirs the oatmeal one last time, and then, with the barest of movements, shakes Dean off of him.  
  
“Can’t be late,” he says as he flicks the stove off.  
  
  
~  
  
  
Sam is sitting on Dean’s lap on a creaky motel bed in some shithole town further away from what once was home than they’ve ever been when he asks, _don’t you think it’s unfair that boys can’t get pregnant?  
  
_ Dean wraps an arm low around Sam’s waist, holding him still, keeping his baby brother seated firmly on his lap with his back pressed tight to Dean’s chest and Dean’s cock buried deep inside him.  
  
“Sammy, what the fuck,” he grumbles. He brings his free hand up to Sam’s face, trying to make his baby brother look at him, but Sam bats his hand away.  
  
“ _Dean_ ,” he murmurs petulantly, slender fingers closing around Dean’s wrist, tugging at it, trying to pull his arm off of him. “Lemme keep moving, Dean.”  
  
Dean keeps holding Sam’s hips down as he slides a hand down his front, his wide palm splaying over Sam’s baby boy belly.  
  
“Fuck, Sammy,” he breathes, then mouths at the pulse point in Sam’s neck, feeling it race under his skin. “You think about that? Think about getting knocked up?”  
  
“ _Oh_ ,” Sam sighs, head falling back against Dean’s shoulder. His hands fly up to Dean’s hand, covering it, keeping it firmly pressed against his flat belly.  
  
“That what you want?” Dean murmurs, slowly rocking his hips into Sam. “You want me to knock you up, Sammy?”  
  
“Dean,” Sam sighs breathlessly. Dean can feel the flat muscles of his stomach contracting under his palm. “Wish you could,” Sam whimpers, “wish you could make me pregnant, Dean, want to carry your babies so bad, you have no idea—”  
  
“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean grits out, lifting Sam off of his lap and laying him out on the bed. Sam spreads his legs immediately and Dean can see his pink hole gaping a little. His dick is curving up to his belly, leaking precome against his skin. Dean’s mouth waters a little. Sammy never lets him suck him off, always flopping onto his belly and spreading his legs instead, urging Dean to eat him out, or pushing himself up on his hands and knees, legs pressed together tight so Dean won’t see his dick, and it’s fucked up, the way he needs the both of them to keep pretending he’s Dean’s girl, and Dean’s not even sure who he thinks he’s doing it for.  
  
Dean shifts closer and brushes his knuckles over Sam’s belly. It’s still early in the morning and they haven’t had any breakfast yet. Sam’s belly is so flat, almost hollow, and when Dean pushes back in and splays his hand over Sammy’s lower stomach, pressing the heel of his palm down, he swears he can feel his dick moving inside his baby brother.  
  
Sam closes his slender fingers over the back of Dean’s hand and guides it a little higher, then keeps Dean’s palm pressed to where his uterus would be if he actually were Dean’s little sister instead.  
  
“Knock me up, Dean,” he whimpers, arching his back so his belly bulges a little against Dean’s palm.

“ _Shit_ ,” Dean grits out, “fuck— Gonna knock you up, baby boy, _fuck_ , gonna knock you up good,” he grumbles, rubbing his hand over the slight swell of Sam's belly as he keeps thrusting into him.  
  
“Really want it, Dean,” Sam whines just before he comes, shooting his load over Dean’s hand still rubbing over his stomach, clenching around him so hard Dean can’t keep himself from spilling inside Sam. He doesn’t pull out, lies down on top of Sam, then manages to roll them over so he won’t crush Sam under his weight without slipping out.  
  
“Dad would kill you, though,” Sam muses, his head resting on Dean’s chest, “but we’d run away, yeah?”  
  
Bile rises up in Dean’s throat at the thought of their dad seeing them like this. He swallows hard, tries to will away the thoughts of what John would do if he would ever find out what his sons get up to, how Dean has ruined his youngest.  
  
“Dean?” Sam asks quietly. Dean wraps his arms tighter around his baby brother and nuzzles into his slightly greasy hair. It’s not as long as it used to be. Dad had made Sam get it cut the other day.  
  
“Yeah, Sammy,” he mumbles, breathing in the smell of his sweaty, dark blond locks.  
  
Dean knows there's no way back, but there's got to be an end to it.  
  
  
~  
  
  
Dean still picks up girls occasionally.  
  
He makes sure they don’t look like Sammy, and they’re pretty, alright, but the further they are from Sam, the less they make him feel. Their mouths and pussies are hot and wet and it feels good around his cock, sure it does, but his chest just feels hollow and his mind doesn’t go as quiet as it used to.  
  
He makes sure to stay away long enough not to find Sam still awake, and when he gets back to wherever the fuck they happen to be staying he quietly slides into bed next to Sam, but he can’t ignore the traces of dried tears that sometimes linger on his cheeks. He wipes the last traces away and pulls his baby brother to his chest, trying not to think of anything at all.  
  
He’s not sure what’s the point anymore.  
  
  
~  
  
  
Sam talks a lot of shit these days, keeps saying stuff that fucks Dean right up.  
  
Dean’s got him on all fours, Sam’s lacy, creamy-white panties tucked to the side, three of Dean’s thick fingers pushed into him. Sam’s thighs are firmly pressed together, balls and dick drawn forward, out of Dean’s sight.  
  
“If I were a girl, I’d probably have my period by now,” Sam says conversationally.  
  
“The fuck, Sammy,” Dean grumbles as he slowly pulls his fingers out, watching Sam’s pink hole tighten up again. When Dean makes no attempt to either sink his fingers back in or push his cock inside, Sam sits up and turns to Dean. He shuffles closer on his knees, plants his hands on Dean’s shoulders and straddles his thighs.  
  
“Would you still fuck me?” he asks, grinding down in Dean’s lap, smooth ass and lace rubbing against Dean’s denim-clad dick.  
  
“What, if you were bleeding?”  
  
Dean skitters his fingers down Sam’s cleft, rubbing over Sam’s hole, imagining it sore and dripping red like a wet, fresh gash. Sam’s gotta try a little harder if he wants to freak him out. Sam sighs softly as Dean rubs his thumb over his tight boy-pussy, sounding so, so sweet, but his mouth is dangerously hot and wet against Dean’s ear.  
  
“If you _really_ could knock me up.”  
  
“The fuck, Sam,” Dean grunts, not quite sure if he’s as willing as Sam might hope to go along with yet another hypothetical scenario. They seem to go more and more insane lately, freaking him out just as much as they turn him on. Dean’s no longer sure whether Sam’s still dreaming about that white picket fence life, whether the little fantasies Dean gives in to are still nothing but poor attempts at imitating his dreams of normality.  
  
“You know, the chance a condom breaks is two point three percent,” Sam says as Dean pushes his index finger inside. Sam moans eagerly, pushing his ass back against Dean’s hand to get his finger deeper inside.  
  
“Where’d you read that,” Dean says as he slides his finger out and pushes two back in.  
  
“Don’t change the subject,” Sam whines, rocks back against Dean’s hand impatiently. “What would you do, Dean?”

“Does it matter?” Dean groans, jamming his fingers a little deeper inside, “I’d make sure you’re on the pill or somethin’, what do you even want me to say, Sam.”

“Even when people use both the pill and a condom, there’s still a zero point—”  
  
“Do you want me to fuck you or n—”  
  
“Dad would kill you if he’d find out.”

Dean pulls his fingers out and wipes them on his jeans. He grips Sam’s hips and pushes him back a little, making sure he can see his eyes.  
  
“That what you want?” he hisses, fingers digging into Sam’s hips as he stares at his baby brother. Sometimes, Dean wishes he could look inside Sam’s head, read his fucked up mind, but most of the time, he knows he should probably be glad that he can’t.  
  
Sam smiles sweetly, eyes glistening. He takes Dean’s face in his hands, presses a soft kiss to his cheekbone, then tugs Dean’s head to his chest.  
  
“C’mon, suck my tits, Dean.”  
  
Sam might still be chasing normality, but Dean’s sure they’re heading for insanity instead.  
  
  
~  
  
  
Dad had taken Dean hunting for a couple of days, the first time they’d left Sammy alone for this long, and Dean knows their dad meant it as much as a test for Sam as it was for him.  
  
It’s long past midnight when they get back to the abandoned house they’ve been staying in over the last couple of weeks. When they walk in, Sam’s sitting on the couch cross-legged, pretending to watch tv. He’s trying to play it cool, but Dean knows he's been waiting up, the relief clear on his face as he looks up at them.  
  
“Good to see you, son,” is all Dad says to Sam before he goes upstairs to shower first.  
  
Dean just stands there, nailed to the ground. He’s probably just as relieved as Sam, the thought of his baby brother being kidnapped or brutally murdered while they were away always nagging in the back of his mind over the past few days. He feels as if all the energy has drained from his body the moment he pulled up the driveway and saw the flickering of the tv through the window. He’d insisted on driving the whole way back, despite John's protests, wanting to go straight home, not even stopping to switch with his dad, not stopping before he’d see Sammy.  
  
“Dean,” Sam says, getting up from the couch as he looks at him with big, concerned eyes, “you okay?” Dean sways a little, feels like he’s suffering from blood loss, but he can’t have lost that much— his flannel’s covered in dried blood but he knows most of it isn’t _his_. He feels bone-tired now that most of the adrenaline has subsided, just wants to take a shower and then snuggle up against Sammy until he falls asleep.  
  
“C’mere,” Sam says as he crosses the distance between them in quick strides. He hugs Dean briefly, then looks at him with concerned eyes, studying the cuts on his face. He drags Dean to the couch and pushes him down. Dean goes easily. He rests his head back against the couch while Sam rummages around for a soft cloth, bandages and some disinfectant, lets the relief of having his baby brother here with him wash over him. He’s sore all over, but it’s a good, satisfying kind of sore, reminding him he’s done a good job. Dean looks up again as Sam straddles his thighs, cloth in his hand.  
  
“Just gonna clean your wounds a little,” he says softly, and Dean would argue that he doesn’t need them to be cleaned, or that he could at least do it himself, but he’s too damn tired for resistance and Sam knows it. Sam carefully presses the wet tip of the cloth to the gash across his cheekbone and it stings like hell. Dean groans, but Sam keeps blotting carefully, whispering _shhh, just let me, Dean, let me take care of you_. He moves on to the cut above Dean’s eyebrow, again so, so tender and careful it makes Dean’s chest ache with love for his baby brother. He settles a hand on Sammy’s thigh, just needing to feel him underneath his bruised fingers.  
  
When Sam’s finished with the cuts on his face, he sits back a little and starts to pry Dean’s blood-stained flannel open, looking for wounds on his chest. There’s a gash just below his ribcage, but otherwise it’s just a mess of bruises from taking punches and being smacked around. Sam folds the cloth over, using a clean side to press to the gash below Dean’s ribs. Dean’s bruised fingers flex on Sam’s thigh involuntary, and Sam shushes him as he quickly cleans the wound.  
  
“This one might need stitching,” Sam says as he examines the gash, a slender finger trailing just below the cut.  
  
“I’m fine, Sammy,” Dean grumbles, digging his fingers into Sam’s thighs.  
  
“Let me at least patch it up, then,” Sam says, reaching for the bandages. Dean watches Sam patching him up with quick, skillful fingers, and as soon as he’s done, he slides his hands up to his baby brother’s hips, tugging him closer. He takes Sam’s face in his hands and presses a kiss to his cheek. Sam finally seems to relax a little in his lap.  
  
“Thanks, Sammy,” he mutters against Sam’s cheekbone as he holds him close, not quite ready to let go of his baby brother.  
  
“Dean,” Sam whimpers, sounding like he’s aching more than Dean, aching somewhere deep inside, but when Dean looks into his eyes, they just seem dull, hollow even. Dean kisses Sam on his open mouth, tongue flicking along his lower lip. Sam gasps so needily and clutches his hands in Dean’s flannel, kissing back like he’s starving, craving everything Dean’s giving him and more.  
  
The shower stops running and Dean draws his mouth away from Sam’s eager mouth, rests his forehead against Sam’s, hands on his thighs.  
  
“Right, I’ll go take a shower and then we’ll go to bed,” Dean says as he leans back, but Sam’s still got his hands firmly twisted in his flannel and makes no attempt of letting go, his eyes suddenly a little hopeful, a little less dull and tired.  
  
“It could always be like this, Dean,” he says in a paper-thin voice. “You could go hunting and when you come back home I’ll be waiting for you and I’ll take care of you, I’ll clean you up and stitch your wounds, I’ll cook for you and wash your clothes and you can always fuck me, Dean, I’d always want it.” He’s rambling, sounding close to delirium. His words don't make sense to Dean at all— there’s no way he really wants Dean to go hunting on his own, Dean can tell now how afraid he must’ve been while they were away. He prays to God it isn’t what Sam truly wants— _Dean_ doesn’t want to go hunting on his own, doesn’t want to have Sam waiting for him someplace away from him, somewhere he can’t keep him safe. He’s got to have Sam by his side, doesn’t want to ever leave Sam behind again. He never should’ve left Sam in the first place, should’ve backed him up for once when Sam had told their dad to fuck off when John had said it’d be good for them to be apart for a while.  
  
“Hey, Sammy,” he shushes, “it’s fine, yeah, we’re here, I’m not leaving you behind again, no matter what Dad says, okay?”  
  
“Dean,” Sam breathes, shaking his head, hands still twisting into his flannel so tight that they’re trembling a little, “I know you want that, I know you wanna go hunting, and I’m not— I mean, look, even Dad thinks I’m no good, I bet that’s the real reason he didn’t want me to come with you, I only would’ve been in your way, but I’ll be so good for you, Dean, I’ll give you everything you want—”  
  
“ _Sam_ ,” Dean says, taking Sam’s face in his hands, “hush now, okay? That’s not why Dad didn’t want you to come with us, he was just testing us.” He feels Sam clenching his jaw against his palms, brushes his thumbs over his cheekbones to calm him a little. “C’mon, you really need some sleep. You’ve hardly slept over the past few days, huh?”  
  
Sam closes his eyes, tries to shake his head. “I mean it, Dean,” he says quietly, “I’d be useless if I’d go hunting with you, I’d only fuck things up, but I could make it so good for you when you’d come back, Dean, take care of you so good, I swear—”

“Sammy,” he says, “ _you_ need taking care of. C’mon, let’s go to bed.” He pats Sam’s thigh, urging him to get up. “Think you’ll be a little clearer in the morning.”  
  
“I’m not—” Sam starts, shaking his head, “I’m not out of my mind, Dean, I mean it.”  
  
Dean would like to argue, but he’s bone-tired, can barely think straight himself anymore. “You do need to sleep, though,” he replies, “ _I_ need to sleep, Sammy, it’s been a damn long day.” He hooks one arm under Sam’s butt, wraps the other around his waist and holds him to his chest as he stands up. He’s so goddamn tired and sore, legs feeling like they might just give out under him, and Sam’s not quite the lightweight he used to be anymore, but at least he doesn’t throw a fit. He crosses his ankles behind Dean’s back and wraps his arms tight around Dean’s neck as Dean carries him upstairs. The bathroom’s empty, John already in his room, a small strip of light coming from under the door. Dean lays Sam down in his own bed and promises he’ll just take a quick shower and then cuddle up with him. Sam’s already wriggling out of his sweatpants. Dean knows that even though it’s stone cold in their bedroom, Sam’s determined to sleep in one of Dean’s shirts, still wants to wear it as a nightgown, always wanting to be so pretty for Dean.

Dean has no idea what their future will look like, but it hardly can be more fucked up than their past  
  
  
~  
  
  
Sam’s worse than ever. He never hesitates to share the disturbing thoughts running around his head with Dean, wanting the most fucked up shit from him. His eyes are dark and sharp as he keeps asking what Dean would do if their dad would ever find out, his face alarmingly placid as he goes on and on about running away and leaving Dad behind, about how he’d be Dean’s perfect wife, ready for Dean to fuck him whenever he wanted. He doesn’t shut up about wearing a corset so he’d look real pretty for Dean and how he’d have Dean tying it so tight he could hardly breathe. He doesn’t blink an eye when he talks about goddamn sex surgery and making incest babies with Dean, about how bad he wants Dean to carve his name into his skin with his knife, marking him as his own, up to the point where Dean can’t stand it anymore and clamps his hand over Sam’s mouth to make him shut the fuck up. Sometimes, Dean’s not even sure what freaks him out more— the things Sam wants from him, or how placid he looks as all that filth spills from his mouth. It seems as if Sam doesn’t even realize how fucked up the things he’s asking for are, how messed up he really is, and that shows Dean just how bad it’s gotten.

They’re drifting further and further away from normal, and Sam’s drifting further and further away from _him_. Dean tries to follow Sam in his crazy fantasies wherever he can, to give into his insatiable needs, but Sammy’s slipping away into his own dream world fantasy thing where Dean can hardly reach him anymore, wanting things from Dean that he could never give his baby brother.  
  
Dean desperately tries to hang on to the self-made normality they’ve got going on for as long as he can remember, every morning he comes home after hooking up with a girl walking up behind Sammy and wrapping his arms around his baby brother, whispering _my Sammy, my perfect little wife_ , but Dean knows they’re living in a bubble, and one day soon it’s gonna burst.  
  
  
~  
  
  
Dean doesn’t have nightmares of falling down mile-deep wells anymore.

Instead, he has nightmares in which Sam’s begging him to put a knife to his throat as he fucks him.  
  
Even in his dreams, Dean’s not stupid enough to give in, but the boy in his dreams doesn’t differ so much from the Sam he knows, or at least he once thought he knew, never taking no for an answer. He grabs Dean’s knife from under his pillow, takes Dean's hand and makes him hold the knife, guides Dean's hand to the side of his throat and tips his head back, angling the edge of the blade to his jugular.

Dean always wakes up at the same point, at the feeling of sheets soaked in blood, and it’s only when his ears stop ringing and he hears the slow, calm sounds of Sam’s breathing that he realizes it’s his own sweat.  
  
  
~  
  
  
Sammy’s lying naked on the bed, spread out like a dream beneath Dean. He’s sighing softly as Dean sucks and kisses his way down his baby brother’s pale neck, his cheeks slightly pink. Dean’s still got all his clothes on as he leans over Sam, knees boxing in his narrow ribcage. He has his hands planted just above Sam’s shoulders, keeping most of his weight off of his skinny little brother.  
  
“How do I know you use a rubber when you hook up with girls?” Sam asks, completely out of fucking nowhere once again. He might have had some course on birth control or something, Dean tells himself.  
  
“I mean, you always do _me_ bare, how would I know you use a rubber when you fuck those girls?”  
  
Dean grunts against Sam’s skin, teeth nipping along his jaw in a threat to make him shut up, but he knows it’s in vain. Sammy’s beyond impossible these days.  
  
“‘Cause I wouldn’t fuckin’ lie to you about shit like that,” Dean says, drawing his mouth away from Sam’s neck and leaning back up, his eyes finding Sam’s.  
  
“I won’t know until I catch an STD or something,” Sam continues, ignoring Dean’s words altogether, “or the day someone shows up with a baby in her arms, claiming you’re the father.”  
  
“And you’d believe her more than you believe me?” Dean sits up, putting a little more weight on Sam’s hips. “you haven’t fucking caught an STD so far, have you?” He brings a hand up to Sam’s face and brushes the hair out of his eyes. “You gotta believe me, Sammy, gotta trust me, goddamnit.”  
  
Sammy narrows his eyes, lips pursed together as if he’s trying to read his mind, figure out whether Dean’s telling the truth, but Dean’s not fucking lying, for Christ’s sake, and all he can do is stare right back.  
  
“Gotta show me that I can trust you, then,” Sam says, and in one fluid movement, he tugs Dean’s head down by his amulet and at Dean’s confusion, he reaches behind his back to grab Dean’s Colt 1911 from where it’s tucked inside his waistband.  
  
“Sammy, what the _fuck_ —”  
  
“Need you to show me I can trust you, Dean,” he says as he firmly holds the gun tucked to his chest with both hands so Dean can’t pry it from his fingers. The muzzle’s pointing to his chin. Dean’s mouth runs dry. The safety features are on, he’s sure, but it still makes his stomach turn and his skin feel too tight to see Sammy with the gun that close to his face.  
  
“Give it back,” Dean grits out, jaw clenching, sweat starting to pearl on his forehead. His hands are clenched into tight fists but he keeps them by his side, can’t do anything he will regret. “It’s fucking loaded, Sam.”  
  
“I know,” Sam says, eyes narrowed. He’s still clutching the gun tight, but he doesn’t even need to be afraid that Dean’s gonna try and wriggle it from his fingers, there’s no way Dean’s gonna put up a fight to get his goddamn gun back, not when it’s loaded, he’s not _that_ stupid. Sam seems to realize that as well, relaxing marginally, loosening his hands a little around the 1911.  
  
“Give it back,” Dean breathes, his eyes never leaving Sam’s, “it’s not a goddamn toy, Sam.”  
  
“That’s right,” Sam says, smiling smugly, “a toy wouldn’t do, Dean.” He slowly brings the gun up to his mouth and rubs the barrel along his slightly chapped lips, eyes fixed on Dean’s.  
  
“Put it down, Sam,” Dean says as calm as he can, jaw clenched tight. Bile rises up in his throat as Sam’s pink tongue flicks out, licking along the barrel.  
  
“You gotta do something for me, Dean,” Sam says, holding the gun to his chest again, the barrel resting along his collarbone. “Gotta show me I can trust you.” He takes Dean’s hand and places it on the 1911, keeps his own hand on top of Dean’s and guides it back to his mouth.

“There’s no fuckin’ way I’m putting it down your throat if that’s what you’re after,” Dean grits out, tugging his hand back as far as Sam lets him, “no fucking way, Sam, forget about it—”  
  
“Just gotta get it a little slick,” Sam says, his face perfectly placid, tongue flicking out to wet his lower lip. His eyes glitter mischievously, dark in a way Dean only knows from his nightmares. “Want you to put it up my ass, Dean.”  
  
His words knock the air right out of Dean’s lungs and he feels as if he’s about to puke his guts out. He’s not sure how they’ve ended up here, with his fifteen-year-old baby brother wanting him to show him that he can trust him by putting his goddamn gun inside him. Dean’s no longer sure Sam ever really wanted _normal_ at all.  
  
“Show me I can trust you, Dean,” Sam says calmly, looking completely unfazed.  
  
Dean could never have given him the normal life he thought Sammy wanted, but there’s no way he can give him all the crazy things Sam’s been asking from him lately either.  
  
“I don’t think you _should_ trust me, Sammy,” Dean grits out, “I’m no good for you.”  
  
Sam slowly pulls the gun back to his chest and rests the barrel along his sternum, muzzle pointing to his face again, his hand still on top of Dean’s.  
  
“Show me I can trust you with a gun, Dean," Sam says, eyes sharp, "show me I can trust you with my life.”  
  
Sam _can_ trust Dean not to kill or injure him. Dean won’t do the slightest damage to his baby brother’s body, but Sam really shouldn’t trust Dean not to mess with his head, shouldn’t trust Dean not to fuck him up beyond repair. Tonight, though, there might be something that Dean can fix. An idea starts to form in his head, a way of giving Sam what he wants without damaging him any further, a way of showing Sam that he can indeed trust Dean.

"Put it inside me,” Sam says, the slightest hint of need sounding through his voice. “I really want you to, Dean.”  
  
Dean can feel him trying to move the 1911 closer to his face, and _fuck_ , Sam might trust Dean with a gun, but Dean doesn’t trust _Sam_ with a gun at all, doesn’t trust him to know what’s good for him, doesn’t trust his baby brother not to damage or hurt himself.  
  
“Give me the gun, Sam,” he says, voice a little calmer now that he’s got some sort of plan. “Give me the gun and I’ll give you what you want.” Sam looks at him with narrowed eyes, as if he’s trying to find out if Dean’s messing with him. Dean doesn’t look away, keeps his eyes firmly fixed on Sam’s.  
  
“Give me the goddamn gun, Sam.”  
  
"You’ve got it,” Sam says, drawing his hand away, and then it’s just Dean’s hand pressing the gun to Sam’s bare skin. Dean swallows hard, then closes his fingers around the grip and takes it away from Sam’s chest.  
  
“You listen to me now,” he says, holding the gun across his own chest, away from his baby brother. He presses the palm of his free hand to the side of Sam’s neck, rubbing his thumb along the column of Sam’s throat. “If we’re going to do this, we’re doing it my way.” Sam nods eagerly, eyes wide in anticipation.  
  
“I’ll— goddamnit, I’ll fuck you with my gun, I will, Sam, but I’m preparing you first, and you’re gonna be real fuckin' patient, all right.”  
  
“ _Yes_ ,” Sam gasps, chest rising and falling quickly. His eyes are gleaming with eagerness and he’s rock hard already, dick pressing firmly against Dean’s ass. Dean leans over and puts the gun on the nightstand. He rummages around in the drawer for lube, then sits back. He spreads Sam’s legs, shuffles closer and rubs a dry finger over Sam’s fluttering hole.  
  
He quickly slicks his index and middle finger and watches Sam’s face as he pushes them inside. Sam takes them easily, so used to this by now that he often begs Dean just to push his dick inside him with no preparation at all. Sammy fucking _wants_ it to hurt, goddamnit.  
  
“Just do it, Dean, wanna feel it,” Sam whimpers, rocking back against Dean’s fingers. He tilts his head back, eyeing the 1911 lying on the nightstand. Dean reaches for Sam, touches his cheek so Sam’ll look at him.  
  
“I said you were fucking gonna listen to what I say,” he says, harsher than he meant to. He rubs a hand over his face, then looks back at Sam. “I’ll give you what you want, Sam, I will, but you gotta be patient.”  
  
Sam swallows, then nods, his body perfectly pliant as Dean pushes a third finger into him. He makes sure Sam’s a little looser before he pulls his fingers back out. Sam spreads his legs even wider, pushes his hips up higher, so goddamn impatient Dean has to bite his tongue and clench his fists not to snap at him again. He leans over and grabs his gun from the nightstand, slowly breathing in and out, willing his hands to stop shaking so he won't fucking mess this up.  
  
“C’mon, Dean,” Sam whines, “show me I can trust you.”  
  
“Quiet,” Dean hisses, anger rising in his chest, hand clenching around the grip of his Colt. “Keep fuckin’ quiet, alright, I’ll give you what you want if you shut your goddamn mouth for once.” Dean closes his eyes briefly, trying to get a fucking grip on himself. Sam seems not impressed by his outburst at all, but at the very least, he keeps his mouth shut.  
  
Dean trails the barrel along Sam’s cleft, rubs it slowly over his hole. He waits for his anger to subside, knows he can’t fuck this up. He focuses on his breathing as he keeps rubbing the metal along Sam’s slick cleft until he’s calmed down a little. He presses the muzzle to Sam’s fluttering hole, rubbing a little, getting it slick. God, he’s gonna have a lot of cleaning to do.  
  
He drizzles some lube onto the barrel and smears it around, then stares at the muzzle pressing against Sam’s tight, pink hole. Some part of Dean still balks at the idea of pushing the unrelenting metal inside Sam’s soft, delicate little body. The front sight of the 1911 sticks out a little, not as much as the sight of Sam’s Taurus, but probably enough to do damage if he’s not careful enough.  
  
“Dean,” Sam whispers, and when Dean looks back up at his face, his eyes are a little softer. Dean takes a deep breath, clenches his hand around the grip and then relaxes it a little, feeling the metal warm and solid in his hand.  
  
“There you go,” Dean says, pushing the muzzle just inside, only up to the sight. He watches Sam’s eyelashes flutter and his mouth fall open at the intrusion, a soft gasp falling from his lips. Dean clenches his jaw, then pushes it a little deeper, and as Sam whimpers loud enough and tips his head back, eyes fluttering closed, Dean releases the magazine from the gun. He stuffs the magazine in the back pocket of his jeans before Sam can see, but he’s still got his eyes closed, moaning as Dean pushes the barrel a little deeper inside.  
  
“This what you want, Sammy?” he grunts, feeling a little calmer, finally daring to rest his finger on the trigger now that the chamber is empty. He slowly pushes the gun in deeper, watching Sam’s hole stretching wide around it. He’s got the 1911 inside Sam up to the trigger guard now, can’t push it in any further.  
  
“Fuck, Dean,” Sam gasps, the flush on his cheeks spreading all the way down his neck and chest. “C’mon, gotta move, fuck me with your gun,” he moans, looking up at Dean with hazy eyes. Dean slowly pulls it back out a little, watching Sam carefully, but there are no signs of pain on his face. If anything, Dean can see a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.  
  
“C’mon, harder, Dean,” Sam hisses as Dean slowly pushes back in, “thought you knew how to handle a gun, huh, gotta show me, then.”  
  
“Hush,” Dean says, pushing the gun deeper inside Sam with a little more force, trying not to think of the way the sight and the rough shape of the gun could tear up his insides. He keeps watching Sam’s face intently, but there’s not a hint of pain there. His eyes are closed, lips parted, sweaty strands of hair sticking to his forehead, a pink flush spreading over his cheeks and down his skinny chest.  
  
“Do all the girls you fuck trust you like I do, Dean?” Sam demands, voice hoarse, watching Dean through hazy eyes. “When they get into your car, do they trust you not to slice their throats and dump their bodies somewhere along the highway?”  
  
“Sam, what—”  
  
“They just don’t even think you would, don’t they, they just see your pretty face and they don’t even think you could possibly kill them—”

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean grunts, stilling his hand, “shut the _fuck_ up, _you_ fucking asked me to put my gun—”

“They just don’t even consider it, just like they don’t even consider you’re fucking your baby brother, fucking me with your goddamn gun—”  
  
“Fuck off, Sam,” he hisses, “if you don’t shut your goddamn mouth already—”  
  
“You think they’d let you fuck them if they knew you put a gun inside your little brother’s ass?” Sam continues, clenching around the 1911 deep inside him.  
  
“Sammy,” Dean grunts helplessly, breath coming out in harsh pants. He’s never felt so sick in his life, feels as if he might throw up if Sam doesn’t quit talking already. “Goddamnit, Sam, I’m fuckin’ givin’ you what you want, ‘m fuckin’ givin’ you what you asked me to—”  
  
“And I really want you to, Dean, I really do,” Sammy continues, pushing back against the gun now, pushing back against Dean’s hand, “C’mon, keep fucking me— _oh,_ I’m just sayin’ they wouldn’t trust you if they knew, they never would, and they’d be right not to.”  
  
“Yeah, okay, Sammy,” he breathes as he keeps thrusting the gun in and out of Sam. He changes the angle a little, then pushes the gun back in, and Sam moans loudly at what Dean guesses is the sight brushing against his prostate, his hole clenching around the barrel.  
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” Sam whimpers, then continues, “but I trust you, Dean, no matter how much you fuck me up, no matter how messed up I am— I know you care about me,” he says, sounding close to either coming or crying. “It’s just that I wish you cared _more_.”  
  
“God, _Sam_ ,” Dean grits out, and he wants to pull his hand back, pull the goddamn gun out already, but he sees Sam clenching down on his 1911 so hard he’s afraid he’ll rip Sam open if he pulls it out now.  
  
“What the fuck do you want, Sam,” he hisses, “what the fuck do you even want me to say, you know I care about you more than anything, I’d do fucking anything for you, you think I would’ve put my goddamn gun up your ass if you hadn’t driven me so goddamn insane—”  
  
“Harder,” Sam moans, rocking back against the unyielding metal, “c’mon, Dean, harder, fuck me good.” Dean’s already fucking the gun in and out of Sam’s ass harder than he ever intended to, can hardly believe he let it get this far.  
  
“Goddamnit, Sam, you’re fucking insatiable, aren’t you, Jesus fucking Christ, what more are you gonna ask of me,” he grunts. He twists the gun a little, shoves it back in hard, and then Sam’s coming, thank fuck, spilling all over his stomach, clenching down on the 1911 so hard Dean swears he can feel it quiver in his hand. Dean watches his baby brother pushing back against his gun as he rides out his orgasm. He’s the fucking biggest mess Dean’s ever seen, all sweaty and flushed, shaking as he comes apart, still clenching around the metal inside him, the most blissful smile spreading across his face.  
  
Dean just sits there, still connected to Sam by the gun in his hand, becoming aware that he’s more than half-hard in his jeans. When Sam’s finally stopped clenching around his gun, he slowly pulls it out, watching his face intently, but Sam doesn’t even wince. He props himself up on his elbows, face still flushed, smiling dreamily as he looks at Dean through glazed eyes, looking completely blissed out. His legs are still spread and Dean swallows hard at the sight of his red, puffy hole.  
  
Sam sees him watching and spreads his legs as wide as they will go. “You can fuck me, Dean, I’m ready for you,” he says, voice hoarse. “Prepared me good, didn’t you?” He brings two fingers up to his lips, sucks them into his mouth, then brings them down to his hole. He rubs his slick fingers over the swollen pucker, moaning softly as he pushes them in easily.  
  
“C’mon, Dean,” he murmurs, then pulls them back out, “feel so empty without your gun inside me.”  
  
Dean’s head is spinning, all the blood going straight to his dick now that he doesn’t have to think so much, doesn’t need to be in complete control of the situation anymore. He tosses the gun to the far end of the bed, then shuffles closer to Sam until he’s between his spread thighs. Sam's eyes flutter closed and he whimpers softly as Dean slowly rubs two fingers over his swollen, sensitive hole.  
  
“C’mon, Dean,” Sam whines, “want your dick, need it in me so bad.”  
  
“Yeah, okay, Sammy,” he breaths, unbuckling his belt with slightly trembling fingers. He’s fully hard now and he’s not gonna waste any time taking his clothes off, just yanks his jeans and underwear down, reaches for the lube and slicks himself up. He rubs the head of his dick over Sam’s sore hole as if he could soothe it like that, then pushes inside.

Dean has to close his eyes for a moment, grips Sam’s thighs firmly so he doesn’t fucking lose it immediately. He can hardly fathom that only moments ago he had his gun right where he’s got his dick now. He starts to move, thrusting in and out of Sam, slow and steady at first, but he’s losing himself quickly. He’s never going to last, but he doesn’t think Sam will mind too much, not the way he’s squirming beneath Dean, whimpering ceaselessly, completely fucked out and oversensitive. He thinks of putting a hand on Sam’s pulsing dick, already hard again, wants to help him a little, but then Sam’s already coming again, clenching so hard around him Dean grips Sam’s hips way too tight as he fucks him through it. Sam goes lax beneath him and Dean stops holding back, fucking Sam in hard, sharp thrusts until he spills deep inside his baby brother.  
  
He collapses next to him, listens to Sam’s breathing as he tries to catch his own breath. Once he’s regained a bit of control, he turns on his back, lifts his hips to pull his boxers and jeans back up, knocking the gun off the bed with his foot as he wriggles around. He gets up, picks his gun off the floor, then walks over to Sam. He’s propped himself up against the headboard, looking at Dean with a peaceful expression on his face, pink lips slightly parted, his body still covered in sweat. Dean’s hand flexes around the grip at the thought that he really put his fucking gun inside his baby brother’s fragile little body.  
  
He holds the gun out to Sam. Sam frowns a little at him, but then takes the gun from Dean’s hand. The magazine feels heavy in Dean’s back pocket. He waits for the realization to dawn on Sam’s face, but it never comes. Sam only smirks as he weighs the 1911 in his hand, eyes still on Dean's.  
  
“I knew you wouldn’t put a loaded gun inside me, Dean,” he says. “I knew you would drop the magazine. I knew you would.”  
  
“Sam,” Dean breaths dumbfoundedly, unable to say anything else, suddenly feeling completely worn-out, blood pounding in his ears, legs shaking a little.  
  
“I didn’t hear or feel a thing, though, I’ll give you that,” Sam continues, “but I was damn sure you would.”  
  
Dean can only shake his head in disbelief. Sam knew right from the start that he could trust Dean. If there’s one of them who can’t be trusted, it’s Sam, goddamnit.  
  
“Let’s see what you come up with next time, then, huh?”  
  
  
~  
  
  
It’s past two AM when Dean comes back to the no longer haunted house they’ve been staying in over the last couple of days. He hadn’t seen his dad’s truck outside, so he must have fucked off to god knows where, probably somewhere out drinking, and Dean just hopes he’ll make it back in one piece.  
  
The light’s still on in the room he shares with Sam, but as Dean opens the door, he finds his baby brother curled up in bed, head resting on a book he must’ve been reading before he fell asleep. Dean walks over to the bed and tries to pull the book from under Sam’s head as careful as he can, but Sam wakes up at the movement, eyelashes fluttering as his eyes adjust to the light.  
  
“Go back to sleep, Sammy,” Dean whispers, pulling the book away as Sam sits up. He takes the bookmark lying on the nightstand and puts it where Sam had left off before closing the book. Sam shakes his head as he rubs the sleep from his eyes, and Dean sees him swallow in an attempt to find his voice.  
  
“Was waiting for you,” he mutters hoarsely, tugging his too-big sleeping shirt over his knobby knees and hugging them tight.  
  
“You shouldn’t stay up for me, Sammy,” he says as he shrugs his leather jacket off and hangs it on a hook on the door.  
  
“Wanted you to fuck me,” Sam says, still hugging his knees. He looks so goddamn young it tears Dean up inside, makes his chest feel too tight and his stomach turn, and as he swallows hard his throat feels as if he’s swallowed a sword. Dean sits down beside him, puts a hand on one of Sam's knees, rubs the other over his own face.

“I shaved for you, Dean,” Sam says, “shaved for you and put on those pink panties you like so much. You can still fuck me, Dean, you can slide right in, I fingered myself a little, felt so lonely and empty—”  
  
“Sammy,” Dean shushes as he tugs his baby brother onto his lap, making Sam sit astride of him. His sleeping shirt rides up a little, revealing a hint of pink lace. “Let’s just go to sleep, okay?”  
  
“Please,” Sam says, sounding sad and lonely even now that Dean is here, “you gotta feel, Dean, I’m just as soft.” He takes Dean’s hand, guiding it under his shirt.  
  
Dean feels desire pooling in the pit of his stomach at the sight of Sam, at the touch of his smooth skin and lacy panties, but it’s subdued by the ache in his chest as he truly sees how broken his little brother is, how bad he’s really fucked him up. He pulls his hand away and wraps it around Sam’s waist instead. Sam closes his hand over Dean’s, trying to guide it back down, but Dean digs his fingers firmly into Sam’s skin.  
  
“Please Dean, need you to fuck me,” he whimpers, giving up on pushing Dean’s hand under his shirt, instead slipping his clammy hands under Dean’s flannel, “feel so empty, need you to fill me up, Dean, please—”  
  
“Sammy, _god_ , I think it’s best if we just go to sleep—”  
  
“Don’t you want to, Dean?” he asks, sounding close to desperate. He nuzzles his face into the crook of Dean’s neck as he grinds down on his lap. “You can do whatever you want, you can fuck my throat first to get hard, okay, I’ll try not to gag—”  
  
“Sam, I don’t want to— _fuck_ , I just—” He twists a hand in Sam’s hair and pulls his head back a little so he can look him in the eyes. Sam’s pupils are dilated, eyes darker than Dean’s ever seen.  
  
“I’ll do whatever you want, Dean,” Sam says as he stares back at Dean, his voice sounding so, so fragile.  
  
“ _Sam_ ,” Dean grits out, putting a hand to his brother's forehead. His skin is only burning up a little underneath his palm.  
  
“‘m not ill,” Sam says, then laughs low and breathless, almost like a lunatic, sending shivers down Dean’s spine. Sam tugs Dean’s hand away and guides it under his shirt again. Dean grabs for his hip, keeps his hand there, the other firmly clamped around Sam’s upper arm. “I’m not ill,” Sam says again as he rubs against Dean and buries his face into the crook of Dean’s neck again, “just feel so empty, Dean, so empty inside.” Dean’s head is spinning, his throat feels blocked, like he couldn’t get any words out if he had them. Sam leans back a little and starts to undo the buttons of Dean’s flannel with slightly trembling fingers, still rubbing against Dean in frantic little circles.  
  
“Need it so bad, Dean, you have no idea, need to have your dick inside me, fill me up so good.” He sounds so desperate, so insatiable and aching with need, almost like a nympho, so fucking hungry that even if Dean would give himself to Sam completely it wouldn’t be enough.  
  
“Sam, stop it,” Dean grits out, grabbing Sam’s hands and keeping them away from his shirt. He doesn’t know what to do, feels like they’ve finally reached the point where Dean can’t reach him anymore, floating in separate bubbles now. Sam pulls his hands free and slides off of Dean’s lap. He sinks down to his knees immediately and shuffles in between Dean’s parted thighs.  
  
“I’d’ve thought feeling empty would kinda feel like feeling nothing at all,” he says as he unbuckles Dean’s belt, “but it feels a little like sadness, I guess, like something’s missing.” He unbuttons Dean’s jeans and slides the zipper down. Dean swallows hard, grabs Sam’s shoulders, fingers digging in, but he knows that won’t stop Sam. He doesn’t know what would.  
  
“Need to always have you inside me,” Sam continues, “can’t ever have you close enough, need to feel you inside me so bad,” he rambles, taking Dean’s half-hard dick out. “Need your fingers too, anything, Dean, think I could take your whole fist if you just let me try, maybe that’d fill me up enough.” He leans in, lips already parted, ready to take Dean’s cock in his mouth, but Dean fists his hands in Sam’s hair and holds him off.  
  
“ _Sam_ ,” he grits out as he twists his hands tighter into his hair, “Jesus fucking Christ—”  
  
“Please, Dean, want it all, want it so bad.” He licks his lower lip and Dean feels him trying to lean in again, but he holds him away from his cock. Sam plants his hands on Dean’s inner thighs instead, nails digging through the denim into Dean’s skin. “Want it in my mouth, too,” Sam says, “wanna feel you pushing your dick down my throat, wanna swallow your come, everything, Dean, everything you’d give me, I’d swallow your piss too—”  
  
“Stop it, Sam,” Dean hisses, clenching his fists into Sam’s hair impossibly tight, trying not to lash out, not to bark at him to shut the fuck up. Dean used to think that maybe, Sam did all of this for him, that he wanted to give Dean whatever he wanted from girls, whatever he wanted at all, always so eager to please Dean, but as Sam looks away, swallowing hard, he realizes Sam knows that he’s freaking him out, scaring him with his bottomless, insatiable needs that Dean could never fulfill.  
  
“I think it’d be better if I just felt numb,” Sam says quietly, “that’d be better than feeling empty, maybe, than needing you so bad."  
  
“Sam,” Dean breathes, relaxing his grip a little. Sam doesn’t lean back in, doesn’t try to get his mouth on Dean's cock.  
  
“It used to hurt,” he says, his voice paper-thin, “needing you so bad, and you— you just—” he looks away, and Dean slides his hands down to Sam’s shoulders, one hand on his bare skin where the neck of his shirt is loose and hangs off his shoulder. He strokes his thumb along Sam’s collarbone, urging his baby brother to look back up at him.  
  
“I was aching so bad,” Sam whispers, “but now I just feel empty.” He takes one of Dean’s hands and presses it to his chest, then looks back up at Dean. “Wish I’d really feel something here, Dean. Wish you could fuck me so deep you’d reach my heart.”

Dean has taken so many punches in his life, but nothing ever felt like his brother aching so bad for him, for his _love_ , aching so bad because Dean refused to give it to him— not completely, keeping his deepest love for his baby bother locked away inside him where it slowly eats at him, afraid that it’ll rip them up, tear them to pieces, bring the both of them to ruin.  
  
“I’m no good for you, Sammy,” he says, his hands still on Sam’s shoulders, keeping him at a distance. “I can’t give you normal and I can’t give you all those sick things you crave either, and I _know_ it’s my fault, Sam, I know it’s my fault that you want all those fucked up things, and I’m so, so sorry, I wish we could turn back time and live our whole lives over, I’d be your brother the way I’m supposed to be—”

“It’s not your fault that I want you so bad, Dean,” Sam says softly, shaking his head ever so lightly.  
  
“Don't tell me it's not my fault, Sam,” Dean says. “I know I should’ve stopped you. Should’ve stopped you the first time you asked me to touch you, for fuck’s sake, and then maybe all the things that we did after that would never have happened, but I couldn’t control myself. I wanted it so bad and I was too fucking weak to resist my baby brother, too goddamn weak to call it quits.” He swallows hard, jaw clenching, then continues, “I’m so sorry, Sammy, I never should’ve done what I did, but all I can do now is finally be a normal brother for you. I could never give you all those things you want, I could never be enough for you like that, Sam.”  
  
Sam’s staring at him with wide, desolate eyes. Dean sees him swallowing hard, but he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he leans in, reaching for Dean’s cock again. Dean closes his eyes, too damn tired to hold him off any longer, but Sam doesn't take him into his mouth, instead tucking him back in his pants, zipping his jeans up again. He climbs into Dean’s lap, hands clutching into Dean’s flannel.  
  
“I’m sorry, Dean,” he mutters as he looks at him with eyes as big and caring as his heart. “I'm sorry I asked too much of you, I know how far I pushed you— I know I scared you. I’m not insane, Dean, it’s just—” His breath hitches and his lower lip starts to tremble a little. Dean wraps his hands around Sam's waist, holds him tight.  
  
“I need you so bad, Dean, but I swear I’m not out of my mind, I just—” he whispers, and then tears start to roll down his cheeks, tears bigger than the ones he’d cried when Dean had pretty much taken his virginity, more likes the ones he used to cry back when he was still a kid, before Dean could suspect all of this would only end in tears, before all of this had even started. Dean cups Sam’s face in his hands, tries to wipe the tears away, but they just keep coming. He pulls his baby brother in, keeping him tucked to his chest as he’s sobbing and shaking in Dean's lap.  
  
“I could never get enough,” Sam sniffles into the crook of Dean’s neck, “I gave you everything I had, and all you did was run away from me.”

Dean hadn’t thought he could feel any guiltier than he already felt about all the sick things he’s done to Sam.  
  
“I’m so sorry,” he says for a lack of better words, “I’m so sorry, Sam, I didn’t think I was hurting you so bad. God, I'm so sorry I fucked it all up, I was supposed to take care of you, right, I'm your big brother, for Christ’s sake, I just can't— There's only so much I can give you, Sam, I could never be enough for you.”  
  
He feels Sam’s tears wetting his flannel, feels him shaking ceaselessly against his chest, his clammy hands clutching at his sides. “I don’t want much, Dean,” Sam whispers against Dean’s skin, “I just want you.” He holds onto Dean so tight, like he's not going to ever let Dean go, and Dean doesn’t even want him to— all he wants is to keep him there forever, keep him close, away from everyone and everything else.  
  
“Please, Dean, don’t run away from me.”  
  
Dean can name a thousand reasons why he shouldn’t give in to Sam, but that has never stopped him before. The least he can do is take responsibility for fucking once.  
  
“I won’t, Sammy,” he says, pulling Sam back a little so he can look him in the eyes. He’s aware that his words are shallow, that he’ll have to prove them every day of his life, but if that's what it'll take not to hurt Sam again, it seems the only right thing to do.  
  
“I promise I won’t, Sam,” he says, his hands firm around Sam’s waist, “I promise, and you know—”  
  
“I know I can trust you,” Sam says, smiling through his tears.

**Author's Note:**

> Jesus christ, this is definitely the most intense thing I've ever written. I'm still trying to wrap my head around what I've been trying to tell and I hope to god this makes sense. I'll go over it in a week or so to check for any mistakes and little bits that might need fixing. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks a lot for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts, I kinda feel like I've been pouring my heart out to be honest. You can find me on [tumblr](http://www.saintedevote.tumblr.com) as well :)
> 
>    
> Edit: I went through this again and fixed some inconsistencies and spelling mistakes, but I'm not a native speaker, so it's not gonna get much better than this. Thank you for leaving kudos and comments, they really mean the world to me <3


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